Infinity, and all that lies before
by crimeshowsaremygame
Summary: Happier and sadder and more beautiful and more broken than ever. Of wanting and knowing and needing. And of maybe, just maybe, of loving.


**Firstly, and brace yourselves, a very long and convuluted authors note.**

**-If anyone has been wondering, yes, I'm no longer working on Petty Officer Jane Doe. There are several reasons. Firstly, I just don't have the time or motivation to write a case fic like that when really it all gets a bit dull and un-poetic. Secondly, way too much has happened in both Bones and NCIS, so that to ignore all that's happened and keep writing in an earlier timeline like everything's all happy la-la would just be plain wrong.**

**-Now, this story. I'm pretty proud of it, because as a general rule I don't edit. I pump a story out in 20 minutes, spell check it and it's uploaded within the hour. The Year it all Fell Apart is my best piece for fanfiction (besides this, which I really love), and that took me 30mins to write and upload. I'm a 'done and dusted' sort of person. But this took me a few weeks, I wrote it in bits and bobs and I changed things and the tone kind of shifts halfway through and I just think it sort of works. Towards the end there's a few 'you's' in there, no, I didn't shift to 2nd person, I'm not sure who 'you' is but it worked, so I left it. **

**-It's meant to be a little bit funny and a little bit sad and just kind of _yeah. _This is the only piece I've written for fanfiction that comes close to the quality of what I write for other things. Not saying that that's anything brilliant, but looking back what's on fanfiction of mine is distinctly worse than what I normally do. But this is close. ish.**

**Now, I disclaim (so totally not mine. I wish), and shut up, and let you get on with the story.**

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He had a few photographs of her, stashed around the place, for a multitude of purposes. She didn't know about most of them, and he'd decided long ago that it was best that way.

It began with curiosity, really, that itching desire to know more about this woman that had appeared with a less than solid reason for her being there. He still remembered that first case with her- the Civil War guys, and her swift little shi-bang with the knife that had gained her at least a little respect from each of them.

So later, much later that evening, he made the trip down to Abby's lab. He asked her for copies of the crime scene photos, fabricating an excuse that he needed them for his paperwork. He was pretty sure she was only half listening anyway, and she handed the little chip over with an airy wave of her hand. It only took him half a minute to find the photo he was looking for, and within another thirty seconds the mechanical silence of the squad room was interrupted with the quiet clanks and beeps of the printer. He left the dimly lit building with a feeling that he'd done something wrong, which, looking back, was probably warranted. She would probably (most definitely) kill him if she found out.

Evening had turned to night and was headed for day again now, but he sat in his living room anyway, holding the photograph. He remembered capturing it by accident (on purpose), and it was by no means a masterpiece of modern art, but regardless, it was of her. She studied it closely, examining the tiny furrow at her brow that was most certainly disapproval at his and McGee's unprofessional (typical) behavior, coupled with the little curve of her mouth that might maybe (could only) be a hint of amusement. Her, there in Kate's old hat and skin washed ghostly white by the flash of the camera. He stared and stared and still didn't understand and at some stage along the line, in the days, the weeks, the months to come, his expression would change from one of infatuation and burning curiosity to one of want, of need, and of something that looked just a little bit like love.

That one went under the coasters on the coffee table.

There were more to follow, these accidental photos taken at crime scenes, by him (in which case it was usually deliberate), by McGee (from whom it was always a mistake), or maybe by the autopsy gremlin, (whose motives shall remain undiscussed). But by whichever means the photo was taken, he would always find a way to obtain it.

Late night trips to the evidence garage, the unceremonious (completely necessary) breaking in to McGee's computer, sneaking down to Abby's lab in the early hours of the morning or surreptitiously saving extra copies on his own computer. He had his methods. Abby (of course) noticed, eventually, and only when she caught him trying to guess her password. She just smiled and shook her head, but from then on made furtive deposits of manila envelopes onto his desk after most cases with a sly grin and a cheery 'Bye, Tony' as she made her way out of the building.

He hoped to god that his apartment was never thoroughly searched, because he didn't quite have a way to explain why there was a picture of his partner sellotaped discreetly to the inside of his fridge. The back of his box of cereal. The back of the remote for the air-conditioning. Behind his movie collection. It crossed his mind that it was all maybe (probably) a little stalker-esque, but he found he really didn't care.

When Abby took all their photos for her phone, she made sure he got a copy. And he paid McGee fifty bucks not to delete all of those photos from LA. And another fifty (or sixty) to take the blame when she found out. That photo was small comfort on that bloody boat. Ship. (Hell-hole).

He didn't even get rid of them when he thought he'd lost her forever. Even though it hurt like hell every time he even glanced at one of them, in the face of a permanent Ziva-drought he refused to rid himself of his last lifelines. He clung to those little moments like they were the only buoyant object in the treacherous ocean that was life. And then she was dead and it hurt infinitely more every time he caught himself falling into those pools of inky blackness (staring at him from the back of a box of cereal, of all things.) And he _still_ point blank refused to dispose of those last links to what was. What could have been. (What was never.)

And then she was alive again and even though what was once there was hidden behind months of despair and a front of hopeless bravery, she was there and it was real and _shit _DiNozzo you really fucked up this time. And there were looks and kisses (near misses) and smiles once more, and still the photographs remained, because when he looked at her it was like looking at a hologram, at smoke, at a wisp of something so insubstantial you had to touch it to be sure it was real, and if you did it would break into a million pieces.

But the shadow solidified again and things got back to the way they maybe (never) once were. And there were more photos now but he didn't need them so much anymore, and even though he held on to the ones from before, they were less of a painful reminder or what used to be and more of a nostalgic slice of a life so very far away from this one. A life of smiles and laughs, of suggestive subtext and of knowing and wanting and needing.

If you squinted, there wasn't much of a difference any more. The two were growing closer and closer together and they would never meet but they would come pretty damn close, and anyway, after all that happened in between, did they need to?

He had fewer photographs now, but she knew about almost all of them, and they were happier and sadder and more beautiful and more broken than any of the others ever were. But it was better this way. Somehow. (It had to be.)

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**Tell me what you think. Not being a review whore, but it would make my day to get a handful from this. Oo-er. Go on. Click the shiny button and tell me how much you love/hate it. Or just say hi. Say something in russian. I don't care. Just send me one of those automated emails and distract me from the mountain of work I have to (and really don't want to) do.**

**Xx**


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